


Just Under the Skin

by songagainstsex



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama & Romance, F/M, Gun Violence, Multiverse, Rating to Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2020-11-22 16:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20877434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songagainstsex/pseuds/songagainstsex
Summary: Her eyes are closed so she doesn’t make eye contact with him, but then it feels like she doesn’t have to. She and John have always been connected in a way she can’t describe or explain. He’s embedded in her chest, right beneath her sternum. Yes, there’s a piece of him there that only she knows. As she fades away, she feels his horror, his disbelief: palpable and overwhelming.If not for the pain running down her arm, she might’ve smiled.





	1. falling and flying.

**Author's Note:**

> So: I desperately miss Man in the High Castle and want it to come back now. That scene from the new season where John finds Juliana in the street has given me ideas and this is one of them. Rating to change. Please enjoy! xx

The gunshot to her shoulder is searing on impact. Unexpected in the aftermath.

She’d hoped to make it wherever she was going before he’d pulled the trigger, but, to both of their surprise, she feels the bullet enter her skin and lodge itself in her muscles and tendons. Or, somewhere in her shoulder, anyway. 

Her eyes are closed so she doesn’t make eye contact with him, but then it feels like she doesn’t have to. She and John have always been connected in a way she can’t describe or explain. He’s embedded in her chest, right beneath her sternum. Yes, there’s a piece of him there that only she knows. As she fades away, she feels his horror, his disbelief: palpable and overwhelming.

If not for the pain running down her arm, she might’ve smiled.

\

Travelling feels like:  
everything and nothing  
weightless and oppressive  
Soundless and a ringing in the ears  
falling and flying  
a distant memory and--

/

Seconds or minutes or hours later, Juliana hits the ground roughly.

It takes time -- how long? -- before she opens her eyes, through long and heavy blinks and then she clumsily sits up. She’s not sure where she is, but it’s suburban, tree lined, with big, beautiful houses side by side. The pain in her shoulder is still hot and angry and not completely unmanageable, but even still she slowly lifts her hand, her good hand, across her chest and presses her palm to the wound. Yes, she was still shot, and yes, it’s still bleeding and yes, it’s possible she was expecting to find something different. Her head pounds, from blood loss or leaving the detention centre, it’s hard to say, specifically. She’s looking around, trying to get more of a grasp on--

There’s no time to think or stop or wonder.

She forces herself to her feet and begins to walk, half run really, trying to work out where she should go or what she should do. Once she’s standing, the pounding in her head gets louder, a steady pulsing, disorienting and confusing. It’s the adrenaline that keeps her moving, or so she thinks, pure instinct and panic. She doesn’t even realise she’s in the street and she certainly doesn’t see it coming when her legs give out from underneath her.

The pavement is wet with rain and she turns her head in time to see car tires screech to a halt inches from her face.

\

“Oh, Jesus!”

The world is fuzzy, frayed, burnt at the edges. The voice is familiar talking to her. And yet, there’s something to it, in it that she knows she’s never heard before? She struggles to open her eyes and when she’s able to, focuses on the face above her. It takes a second, just a second, before she recognises him. 

_Him._

If she’d the energy, she would yell, scream right in his face; if she’d a gun, she would aim right at his heart and pull the trigger; but she doesn’t and she can’t, so instead she turns, her arm clutched to her side. It hurts now, badly, and she’s aware that it reads on her face. Everything hurts, but nothing could be worse than Reichsmarschall John Smith finding her wounded in the street, and so she must keep moving.

“Don’t move, don’t move!”

His arms are wrapping around her now, he’s nervous and she feels it, she knows there’s no use in fighting it. She’s resigned to going with him, wherever he takes her. So he’s lifting her dead weight, and though she knows she doesn’t have the wherewithal to truly fight him, her legs kick anyway, a final, if feeble, attempt to get away from him. His heart is beating rhythmically, quickly against her back. It’s here that she turned her head and sees. 

_No, it can’t be._

“We’re going to get you to a hospital!”

_Thomas._

A knee-jerk reaction, she tries to reach a hand over but can’t lift it enough to touch his face. Not because John’s holding her, but because the pain, _the pain_. She takes a shuddering breath in.

_Sweet Thomas_, she thinks, held up only by John’s strong, yet shockingly gentle embrace, staring at this boy, much to his confusion, _Thomas, I’m so sorry we’ve failed you_.

/

In the car, music plays softly as Juliana lays in the back seat. The pain has wholly changed now, from just bearable to horrible, and she’s clutching at her shoulder, taking laboured and shaky breaths through her mouth. She feels like she’s got her eyes open under water, nothing is in focus, no matter how hard she tries. She knows but doesn’t want to acknowledge she is going to faint.

“Hey, hey! You’ve got to stay up, okay?” her eyes roll open -- she didn’t realised they’d closed -- and she sees John glancing frantically back at her in the rear view. He’s driving faster than he should, even in her stupor she knows that. His body turns back to look her over and she can’t quite hear him curse under his breath before he turns to face the road again, “You’ve got to stay awake. Just a bit further. Tell me your name.”

“Please,” she says, low and hoarse, “Not a hospital.”

He looks back in the mirror, “What? No, you need a doctor,” and for the first time, he sounds like the John Smith she knows: authoritative and sure. 

“Please.”

Thomas looks back at her now, familiar concern etched into his face. Before he can say anything, his father interjects, “You’re bleeding. You need a doctor.”

“John, please,” she's pleading, she doesn’t see the confusion that crosses his face when she says his name without prompting, “please, John, not a hospital, please, please,” her hand is pressing into her shoulder now and she's acutely aware of how much she's bleeding or has been bleeding. Her head falls to her shoulder and she keeps mumbling, “Please, John.” She can hear his voice, echoing and distant, “Hey! Hey, you’ve got to stay awake! Please, miss!”

She thinks about how this John Smith, desperate and worried, is trying to keep her awake, keep her alive. “As though you didn’t pull the trigger,” she mumbles inaudibly, with a smile, as the world takes its final spin and goes entirely black.


	2. dreaming

_Am I dreaming?  
Am I dead?  
Is this what it feels like to be dead?_

\

Juliana struggles to grasp the part of her brain that is still alert, which is telling her frantically she shouldn’t be using John’s name when talking to him. It’s too hard to hold onto this idea, however, and it seems too late anyhow. She’s sliding further and further down in the seat until she lands on her bad shoulder, which makes her yelp. She knows there’s a response, a stirring from the front of the car, but she’s not sure what it is. With effort, she rolls over slightly, taking the pressure off of her arm and closing her eyes.

/

Juliana is standing in a field: green with grass, white with flowers. Everything is so beautiful. Calm. She feels an overwhelming sense of safety. Security. In front of her is a stalk, tall and golden yellow. As she reaches her fingers up to touch it, she’s surprised to find that her hand is bloody. She holds it up, inspecting, and the red colour travels: down her palm, her wrist. Up her arm, her shoulder, to her throat. She suddenly feels like she’s drowning. She’s taking short, gulping breaths. _Help me_ she thinks but can’t say.

\

“Dad, do you think she’ll be okay?”  
“She’ll be okay. I’ll see to it.”

/

The horn on the car brings her back to reality for just a minute. She struggles, but manages to prop herself up. She sees John look at her, wide eyed in the rearview mirror. She notices that Thomas isn’t in the car anymore, as John’s saying something, probably about how she shouldn’t be moving. 

She licks her lips. “John,” she says, “John, I think I’m dying.”

And then back into the darkness she falls.

\

“Hey!” she can feel his hand gently resting against her not-bleeding shoulder. “Hey, we’re almost there. Just hang on, okay?”

/

Juliana is standing in the middle of a field. Across from her, she sees the silhouette of her sister, unmistakable regardless of the distance between them. Her head turns and she sees her parents standing behind her. Where to go? What to do? Her whole body turns now and she stares at her parents, who are waving wildly, telling her to _come this way_. When she turns her back on them, a single tear slides down her cheek, but her steps are steady. She knows the way.

\

Someone carefully tugging her from the car. Arms hooking under her legs and back. A person holding her. They’re walking. She can’t open her eyes so she can’t say where. Her head is tucking into this person’s chest, and she can’t say how, but she knows it’s John carrying her, she knows without looking. She knows because she’s been held by him before? She twitches against him, realising that she’s crying though she’s not sure she could say why. It takes effort, but she barely opens her eyes and glances upward, her vision blurred from tears and pain. Her hand reaches up, lightly grabbing the fabric of his shirt. 

“John,” she groans, feeling as though she’s shouting, though in truth he has to drop his head to hear her, “John, please, please…”

_Help me_.

/

It’s a struggle, but John manages to get them both inside a house.

She hears him say, “I didn’t know where else to bring you,” and figures this must be his home. She’s restless in his arms, feeling a pump of adrenaline bringing her back to life or something closer to it. He looks at her and she sees something cross his face-- concern? Distress? More than likely, a combination of the two. When he bounds up the stairs two at a time, eliciting a hiss from Juliana, he says, “I know that hurt, I’m sorry. I’ve got you, though. We’re going to get you cleaned up.” 

It feels sudden, though it surely isn’t, but he’s put her on the floor and she’s in a bathroom. _His bathroom_. She blinks and blinks, as though this will prevent the inevitable from coming, which is the same ink coloured nothing that punctuated her time in the car. “Hey! Can you hear me?” he asks, in a volume somewhere between regular talking and full on yelling. It’s here that she realises his hands are cupping her face. It’s electric: even in this state, she feels it run from his skin into her cells. Her eyes are open a bit wider now and the pain is radiating from her shoulder and down her arm, across her shoulder blades. He is face level with her and half smiling. “Hey,” his voice is quieter now, though still edged with-- fear? “There you are. I’m going to call a friend. A doctor. He’s going to help us, okay? I’ll be right back.”

All she can manage is a nod.

\

In an effort to keep herself awake, or at least alert, she tries counting tiles on the floor. She gets as far as 5, twice through, before she feels herself slump over and the world goes black once more.

/

Juliana is standing in a field. It’s brown and faded, a remnant of something that held life once. Each step she takes is punctuated by the crunching of leaves and foliage under her feet. The sun disappears and it begins to rain. Thunder cracks. She looks up, watching lightning splinter through the sky. Her attention comes back to Earth just in time to see him, standing in front of her. She tries to say his name, but John’s hand is around her throat and squeezing. Her feet are lifting off the ground and her lungs are burning. _Please no_, she thinks, _Not like this._

\

“He’ll be here soon. Just hang on.”

/

She only vaguely hears voices and they’re whispering frantically, but no matter how much she strained her ears, she can only catch small pieces:

“She knew my name--”  
“What do you mean she--”  
“I mean, she knew my--!”  
“What happened to--”  
“It looks like she’s been--”  
“Where did you even find--”  
“Can you help her?”

_No, doctor. There’s no hope for me._


	3. remind me of your name

The last time Juliana passes out, she doesn’t come back for ...how long is it?

She doesn’t remember much of the medical care.

Not the shot to numb the area.  
Not the stitches that were hotly debated because it’s not clear that all of the bullet has been removed and she really should be in a hospital.  
Not the tender way John lifted her and put her in his bed without a second thought.  
Not the call he made to Thomas, who will be staying with his grandmother for a while.  
Not the chair he tugged from the desk in the corner of his room to her bedside.

She remembers nothing of how he watched her through the night and into the day, his head in his hands, unable to sleep.

She remembers nothing.

/

John’s instructions are clear. 

She should be bed bound for the next week at least, unless she needs the bathroom. She should not sit up, stand up on her own and should not try to. She should keep her arm stationary against her torso. She should not lift anything, even a spoon, with her bad arm, do anything that could otherwise compromise the sutures, the wound, the healing. If at any point it looks like there’s an infection, she spikes a fever, feels nauseous, actually vomits -- if there’s anything out of the ordinary, _do not call Dr. Adler_. Bring her directly to a hospital. 

And in the immediate, John should: take her temperature; give her aspirin for the pain; do not, under any circumstances, leave her alone. 

No, he couldn’t possibly now.

\

_Are those footsteps?_

Juliana tries to open her eyes, but they feel heavy, like she doesn’t have control over them anymore. She hears soft breaths, careful quiet movements.

_John?_

She wishes desperately to see what’s happening. Instead, she notices the pain in her shoulder, white hot and pulsating. _What’s happened?_ she wants to ask, but her mouth won’t move to make the sounds, so instead, she succumbs to unconsciousness once more.

/

The first 24 hours are cyclical. John doesn’t go to work. Sits at her bedside, anxiously putting his hand to her forehead, sliding a thermometre under her tongue. Puts a wet cloth to her lips, the frame of her face. Carefully changes the bandages as Dr. Alder showed him, looking specifically for the red, angry signs of infection or unnatural heat emanating from the area. 

Everything looks okay, so far, except--

_If she does not regain consciousness in the next day, she needs fluids and you must bring her to a hospital._

“Come on, now,” he says to her, his voice low, almost intimate, though how could that be since he doesn’t know her name. “It’s time to wake up,” he’s practically crooning, brushing hair out of her face.

The initial panic hasn’t subsided. In fact, the more minutes that inch by without her opening her eyes, the bigger the pit in his stomach grows. It's been impossible to sleep and if he does, it’s for a few moments only and he wakes in a panic, practically falling out of his chair. What he's worried about is hard to pinpoint, specifically.

But vaguely, it's _her_ and it's _him_ and whatever that leaves between them.

\

Juliana tries to blink her eyes open, without success. “John?” she says, or tries to, but her voice is quiet and horse, inaudible from thirst, from lack of use. She hears him, or she hopes it’s him, moving around the room. Did she say anything at all?

_Come on now,_ she hears him say, in a tone that would surprise her, if she was awake enough to acknowledge it, _it’s time to wake up._

Her fingers twitch, she wants to reach for him, but her arm is heavy, weighed down. 

_John._

Away she goes, his name heavy on her mind.

/

The sun is setting, all reds and oranges, against the grey backdrop of a Fall sky. Time is ticking, ticking, _ticking_ away. Her fingers twitch and something in his chest lurches forward. When her eyes stay closed, he lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. Tomorrow morning, he decides, watching her from the window, if she’s not awake by tomorrow morning, he’ll bring her to the hospital.

Somewhere, he hears Dr. Adler sigh at him.

\

You have to wake up now, she tells herself.

You have to wake up now.

YOU HAVE TO WAKE UP NOW.

YOU HAVE TO--

/

John’s feet are propped against the bed. His eyes are half closed, but he’s not asleep, couldn’t be despite how welcomed it would be. No, he’s alert, awake, poised for the slightest movement. Somewhere deep in his chest, he’s waiting for her to sit up, explain, tell him everything, but exactly what that is or what he’s hoping for, is much further away, undefinable.

Her name. At this point, he’d settle for her name.

\

The clock reads 3:02. 

At 6, if she’s not awake at 6, he’ll bring her to the hospital. He’ll tell them that he found her on the side of the road. She can confirm that at least, once she’s awake. It gives him reason to not know her name, where she’s from, why she’s dressed in green fatigues (a prison uniform?). Tell as much truth as possible, to avoid getting lost in the details. Though why he thinks he needs to lie is a bit beyond him.

He pulls down his feet and leans forward in his chair, pressing his hand to her forehead. Still no fever, which is good news. 

Or he hopes.

And it’s here, in this moment, just as he leans back, crossing one foot over his knee, folding his clammy hands across his lap just to do something with them. Here, he hears it: quiet, faint, a whisper just barely: “John.”

It startles him still, that she knows his name and he wracks his brain to recall the moment that he said it to her, since he must have, that’s the only explanation, right? Did she say it? Did he actually fall asleep and he’s dreaming?

“John,” she says again, with a little more power. Her eyes are pinched shut, and she’s moving one arm, the good one, to touch the one he assumes still hurts.

Finally, he answers, “Yes! Yes, I’m right here. Don’t move, okay? You shouldn’t move,” he finds himself standing and then sitting again, this time on the edge of the bed beside her. He takes her good hand and holds onto it, shocked to find himself on the verge of tears for this woman, whose name he doesn’t know. “You’ve got to keep still.”

/

Her eyes blink open.

The room is familiar or at least, some variation of it seems familiar. She’d never been upstairs in John’s home, but even so, his fingerprints are everywhere. She knows this home. For a moment, she wonders why she’s here, but it floods back to her, in the form of an ache, sharp and pointed, in her shoulder.

Ah, yes.

She swallows hard, heeding his orders to be still. His hand is clutching hers, warm and nearly sweet. When she glances up at him, she’s shocked to find relief all over his face. There’s something kinder about him here, which continues to throw her off.

What does she tell him now?

Given everything, whatever he asks seems to be a good place to begin.

\

“What’s your name?” his heart is hammering in his chest as he enquires.

There’s a pause, he sees her eyes focus on his face and he smiles slightly at her, trying to provide some kind of comfort in this situation that surely is strange to them both.

“Juliana,” she responds.

He repeats, “Juliana,” and it feels familiar on his tongue, like he knew it all along. “Who did this to you?”

Nothing prepared him, even in all of his wildest thoughts about this woman who appeared from thin air and is now lying in his bed, wide eyed with pain etched all over her. Her head tilts and she sighs at him, and even then, he’s not ready for what she says: “You.”


	4. ask me something else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got hit by some serious writer's block, so i've been MIA for quite a while, but i'm back and ready to get back to it. xx

_You._

“I…,” John begins, but can’t figure out how to finish, doesn’t know where to go. “I don’t understand,” is what he settles on, though this feels wholly inadequate for what’s happening now. Then he adds, “I didn’t shoot you,” it’s a statement of fact, one that he believes. And that isn’t a lie, Juliana notes, at least, not to this version of him.

You, it was you. _Why did_ you _say that?_ she wonders, cursing her sleep addled brain for betraying her so thoroughly. 

“I know you didn’t,” she responds, shaking her head slightly, “Sorry, I must… I’m still a bit groggy.” Juliana shifts slightly, though keeps her fingertips lightly pressed into John’s wrist, his palm resting tightly around hers. It occurs to her, in all of this, he still hasn’t pulled away from her. Why? When she settles in again, she tilts her head at him, flinching slightly as the tension sends a small surge of pain through her arm. “I’m not sure how much I can help. I don’t remember much leading up to… falling in front of your car.”

John nods, as though this makes sense. Maybe it does. “Well. With time, then.” Silence passes between them. “How did you know my name?” he asks, as he pulls his hand away, swiftly, as if he’s just been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been.

Juliana’s brow furrows, “Didn’t you tell me?” She’s surprised to realise she misses his hand resting over hers. Something grounding, at least, when she feels like she’s still falling through time.

“No, I’m sure I didn’t.”

In her discomfort, she stays quiet. What does she say? How does she account for _anything_ that’s happened in the last 24 hours? Should she tell him the truth? Does she continue to lie? Panic begins to bubble over, catching all the thoughts rushing through her mind somewhere between her brain and her throat. She takes one deep inhale and lets it go. The Reichsmarschall. Sitting on the edge of a bed that isn’t hers. He’s staring at her, looking her over—for what? What is he hoping to find? The Reichsmarschall. This man Juliana does and does not know. She swallows hard. _The Reichsmarschall._ “I’m sorry, I should leave,” she says abruptly, reaching toward the edge of the duvet with her good hand, pulling it off of the top half of her body.

“You what?”

“I should go. I’ve put you out enough already,” Juliana’s breaths are shallow now, laboured, nervous. She shimmies herself upwards, trying to get enough leverage to stand.

“Hang on,” John says, unmoving from his spot beside her. “Hang on, now. You can’t leave.” 

Juliana stops sharply here, feeling the colour drain from her face. Is this a threat?

He repeats, “You can’t leave. You’ve only just woken up—”

“You’ve already done too much—” she interjects.

“You’ve just been shot, just lie back—”

“I’ll be okay—”

“I know you will, but you’re not yet—”

“I really appreciate all of your help—”

“Juliana—”

“I can figure it out from here—”

“Juliana!”

His voice is forceful enough to startle them both. Juliana releases her grip on the comforter and shrinks into the pillows. She’s in no position to argue and this, this is what worries her most.

John clears his throat, takes a breath, closes his eyes for a fleeting moment “Sorry,” he says and it almost sounds like he means it (does he mean it?), “I just. You can go if you’d like, but I think you should stay. You’re in no shape to leave.”

He’s right, of course. Juliana contemplates this for longer than feels reasonable, because she wonders if maybe there’s a way for her to go. Maybe she can find a way back to her own time. Maybe she can find someone else, someone friendlier, to tend to her wounds. Instead, she remembers she can barely lift her good arm, let alone move her injured one, without sending a pain so potent through the rest of her, it feels like she might pass out. A sigh escapes her and she nods her head without looking at John. 

“You’re right,” she concedes. There’s more, it feels like she could, or should, say more, but instead she punctuates with, “Thank you,” and leaves off the cliché: _for saving my life._

/

In the kitchen, John stands over the oven, waiting for the kettle to boil. Juliana has agreed to some tea and toast, a request that he’s more than happy to fulfill. A thousand questions run through his mind. Who is she really? Where is she from? Who shot her? _Is it possible I shot her_? No, of course not. Yet. She seemed so sure? Is she lying to him? But why would she? Why is he helping her? What is this obligation? Why does he feel so compelled to help her? Why does it feel like he knows her?

The kettle whistles, bringing him back.

As he arranges the cup and toast on a tray, he decides he will ask exactly none of these questions of her directly.

At least, not today.

\

“Where are you from?”

The question startles Juliana, who is slowly chewing the toast he’s quite literally feeding her, trying to quiet her anxiety that it’s somehow poisoned. _He is not the man you know, he is not the man you know,_ a mantra, she’s repeating it over and over. When she swallows, she looks at him suspiciously. _He is not the man you know._ “I grew up in San Francisco.”

“Way out West, hm?” John holds up the cup of tea and waits for Juliana to nod. When she does, he gingerly lifts the cup to her mouth and she blows on it gently before taking a sip. He notices her eyes are pinched shut and assumes it’s due to the heat of the liquid. “What brings you to New York?”

Juliana settles back into the pillows on her bed— _his bed_. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to lie, but what other choice is there? _Why am I here? I just fell through time and space and landed in whatever reality this is. Can you tell me who’s president and if the Nazi’s are still in charge here?_ “I was…,” she chooses her next words very carefully, “I was trying to get away from someone. Start over somewhere.”

The image of her in her green fatigues flashes in front of his eyes. Is she a prisoner? Should he call the police? He’s very glad in this moment to have sent Thomas away. “Well,” he responds, coolly, “I wager this wasn’t the reception you were expecting, hm?”

She gives him a small smile, “You’ve no idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for the notes, friends! i appreciate the love. xo


End file.
